


Twice Blessed

by JaqofSpades



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-12
Updated: 2013-10-12
Packaged: 2017-12-29 04:42:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1001029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaqofSpades/pseuds/JaqofSpades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He remembers this.  The slow burn, the swelling of emotion.  Friendship, and admiration.<br/>Under it all, lust.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twice Blessed

**Author's Note:**

> New fandom, don't shoot. Still figuring them out so they're bound to be a little OOC. Written for kathrynthegr8's comment fic challenge on LJ, to the prompt Ichabod/Abbie, "the more things change".

He remembers this. The slow burn, the swelling of emotion. Friendship, and admiration.

Under it all, lust.

There was a time when he flagellated himself for that sin, but his beloved had cured him of that. We are blessed, she would smile. Come to me and celebrate. And there was no gainsaying the truth of it when the sky rained stars and the earth sang hymns to their coupling.

He looks at Abigail, and the earth is singing once more. The sky is pregnant with promise, and his heart set to burst. Katrina, Katrina, he prays. What to do here, my love? Am I free? Am I yours? 

Her whisper comes in his dream, but he knows the truth of it. "You are released. Love her well," and her blessing ripples through him, seed on the sheets and satisfaction melting his bones.

His shout brings Abbie running.

Her dusky skin gleams with the moonlight, breasts cradled by the chemisette she wears, and bottom half clad in something so small and clinging that it steals his breath. But there is no false modesty in this marvellous creature, a being of pure action and reaction, and she leans over him, shaking him fully awake.

"What is it, Crane?" she says urgently, and he can only blink at her. Blink, that is, until he raises his hand to her face, and dazedly follows the curve of her cheek down to that lush, mesmerising mouth.

"So beautiful," he says, and her eyes widen in shock. 'Tis forbidden, he knows that. This world keeps its men and women apart in strange and artificial ways, and apparently "partner" disallows him the thing he wants most. He'll have none of it.

"Grant me your lips, sweet Abigail," he murmurs, willing to submit to her in all things, even this. Mayhap this in particular, he groans as her eyes blaze with heat, and she climbs onto the bed. Onto him, her cunt warm and wet over his aching cock even through the softness of her night garb. She leans forward to take the kiss.

It's a small one. A mere introduction that leaves him hungry for a real taste of her. But he waits, and lets her lick her way to his earlobe, and kiss his eyelids, and tug at his beard. Then she buries her tongue in his mouth and her hands in his hair, and drenches him in sweetness and spice.

Bossy, no-nonsense Abbie Mills pulls his hands to her hips, and reaches up to strip off her ridiculous little top garment. He must have look poleaxed, he realises, for she smirks and drags his hands up to where she wants them. His great hams nearly swallow those dainty breasts, and that's not to be borne, not with a sight as intriguing as the moonlight dancing across her silken curves.

He cups them high, memorises the texture of her skin with wondering fingers, then delights in the constellation of tiny bumps around her nipples. They are darker and larger than those he's accustomed to, and more sensitive as well, he finds when he flicks the rock hard buds with his thumbs. She sobs out his name and her hips grind down, suddenly wetter and hotter in that way he remembers so well. He pushes himself up to sit, desperate to taste, to lick and roll and bite a little as she pants into his ear.

"Ichabod. Crane." She used to say it with disbelief. Now it rings with something else, something thankful, he hopes. He was sent to her. To _her_. 

"Your wife!" she cries, pulling away, and her loves her for that. Stolen moments in the confusion of half-sleep might lead to things unwise and regrettable; his Abbie knows better than to simply grab at temptation.

He kisses her cheeks and her eyelids and takes a long sip of that delicious mouth before he answers.

"Love her well, she said. What say you, Abigail Mills?"

"You already do, Crane. You already do," she smiles, and slides off him to rid herself of her undergarment. Slides back, and slides down, and up, and down again, eyes locked with his as their bodies are given the union their souls have already found.

He's shuddering up into her within an indecent amount of time, so he grasps desperately for her pleasure, hands as clumsy as his stuttering stroke. It matters not, it seems, for she's liquid around him, keening into the night as her body jerks above him.

He lies awake for a time as she slumbers, tiny body fitted against the planes and hollows of his own. There's a possibility, he allows, that he has given in to sheer want and wishfulness, and imagined his not-dead wife giving her gracious, otherworldly consent. That he hasn't been released at all. That he is an adulterer.

But he cannot doubt his wife's power. She outsmarted death itself. He has no doubt that she can enter his dreams, even his waking life if she wished. He still has his cock. And his soul is swollen with joy.

"Thank you, my love," he whispers, and closes his eyes to dream of red hair and dark skin and green eyes and a bossy woman with a gun on her hip.

Two loves, two lives. Ichabod Crane, twice blessed.


End file.
